The Best Man
by MaxRideObsessed
Summary: A little random angst, because that's just what watching Swan Song and then a bunch of the first season does to you. Enjoy.


**A vaguely okay angst thing I wrote. The other oneshot is better. First part is Sam at Stanford, second part is Dean post the evil finale of doom. Enjoy.**

Sometimes Sam wondered what Dean was doing.

He'd be sitting in the library, attempting to read a long and monotonous book on procedural law and his mind would wander - he'd think about Dad and Dean hunting together, or probably separately by now.

He didn't like to think about Dean hunting by himself, with no backup.

Sometimes he wanted to call his brother, ask him how things were. Then he would remember all the shouting matches, all the sleepless nights, all the times he wished he were somewhere else and he would forget about it. He'd been at Stanford for a year, so it was unlikely that either his father or his brother would have the same cell phone anyway.

He pretended that he couldn't contact them if he tried. Of course they'd need to know if something happened, if Sam couldn't run away from the past after all.

Sam would think about all this, staring into space, and Jessica would place a concerned hand on his shoulder, asking him if he was alright. He would nod, thinking of all the times that Dean had done the same after a particularly exhausting hunt or ferocious argument with Dad.

He thought of Dean watching out for him as a kid - he didn't really miss the actual act of it now, just sort of wished that there was some sort of communication between them. Sometimes it was... disheartening, thinking of their lack of contact.

He could take care of himself now - not that there was really anything to protect himself from _here _- but it would be nice to know for sure that if he called his brother he would answer.

He was glad to be out of the house, and most of the time, glad to be away from Dad, but sometimes he thought nostalgically of the days when he could look to his brother for anything.

He had new friends now, and he liked his life, but could he help thinking about all the times his father or brother could be dying, or nearly dying, and he wouldn't even hear about it? Wouldn't be able to help?

But that was, in part, why he had left, so he tried to ignore the thoughts and focus on Jessica's soft skin, her warm eyes, the nice and easy future that they had laid out before them. That he had created, by leaving.

He was going to propose to her, probably soon, once he found a ring.

And maybe, just maybe, he could convince his brother to be best man at the wedding.

* * *

Dean knew where Sam was.

He'd be sitting on the couch with a glass of relatively expensive whiskey, watching whatever was on television, and he'd let his mind wander - he'd think about his time in hell, and hope (in vain, he knew) that Sam wasn't going through what he went through, or worse. Because Sam wasn't coming back.

He didn't like to think about his little brother down there, being tortured, forgetting himself, spending eternity in that hole that was probably worse than Hell.

Most of the time he wanted to find a way to bust him out - even to trade places if it wouldn't be pointless and make both of them even more miserable. Because if there was anything Sam didn't want, that was it. They'd been through it all before. He'd remember the neverending heartfelt conversations of the year before Hell, the deep-set hurt in Sam's eyes, the promises he'd made, and forget it, or try to.

He pretended it didn't agonize him, sitting idly. He pretended to be normal (he was happy, but he wasn't normal), and he pretended that he didn't know his life would eventually catch up to him, as it had with Sam. It always catches up to you.

Dean would think about all this, staring into space, and Lisa would place a concerned hand on his shoulder, asking him if he was alright. He would nod, thinking of all the times that Sam had done the same after a particularly exhausting hunt or emotionally draining apocalypse-busting day.

He thought of watching out for Sam as a kid - his whole life, really. He missed it, and he missed it badly. He hated knowing where Sam was. Sometimes he just wanted another chance to talk to him, like the years they spent alone together weren't enough. He wished he could save his little brother.

He was happy now - he'd promised Sammy he'd be happy, and he'd followed through on his promise - but it would be nice to have someone he loved (someone he'd loved his entire life) to share it with. He wished that Sam didn't have to die for him to try to be happy.

He was... sort of glad to be out of the line of fire, though, something he'd never have admitted. And he did love Ben and Lisa, but sometimes he thought nostalgically of opening the trunk of the Impala, arming himself, gearing up to kill something with his brother securely at his side.

Dean had a new life now, and he couldn't deny that he enjoyed it, but that didn't stop the constant pain. Sometimes he thought it was his heart, sometimes he thought it was his head, but it was probably just pain all over. How could he help thinking of those goddamned years, of Sam screaming in agony but at the same time not having a real mouth to scream with?

But that was why he was here - because he had promised his brother - so he tried to ignore the thoughts (as if that was possible) and focus on Lisa's soft skin, her warm eyes, her obnoxiously lovable preteen son, the normal future that they, if they were lucky, had laid out before them.

He was going to propose to her, probably soon, once he found a ring.

He'd ask Bobby to be the best man at the wedding, but they both knew who he imagined at his side.


End file.
